


Harder, Softer

by Dragonmaster



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:36:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonmaster/pseuds/Dragonmaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A "Double-Edged Sword" story.  Hardshell goes to Orion Pax for help in finding a place for one Insecticon in particular...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harder, Softer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheBuggu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBuggu/gifts).



> For Robofry, who wanted Insecticon-specific cuteness. Enjoy.
> 
> Set during the events of "Double-Edged Sword," immediately after the events of Chapter 7 (Starscream's rescue). Unless you have read that fic, you'll have no idea what's going on here.

Silence fell upon the washracks as quickly as if someone had hit a mute button, ending the easy conversation among the Vehicons. As one they turned to stare at the newcomer, a hulking mech who filled the doorway with his bulky, jagged presence. The only sound was the continued rush of cleanser as someone’s shower continued to run, long forgotten by the mech who had turned it on in the first place.

Hardshell glanced around the long, damp chamber, taking in the half-dozen staring visors, then snorted and stalked into the room, making for a corner spigot to clean up. He was used to the stares by now – the wary, disdainful, even terrified looks he got wherever he went aboard the Nemesis that wasn’t the Insecticons’ level of the ship. He’d grown accustomed to Vehicons, Eradicons, and even Knockout and Dreadwing looking at him with that same mixture of contempt and fear, as if wondering how dare a lowly Insecticon try to mingle among their numbers.

Just because he was used to the stares, however, didn’t mean he had to like them. And he felt nothing but contempt for these creatures who didn’t even dare voice their fears aloud, who were perfectly happy whispering about him behind his back but didn’t have the gears to tell him anything to his faceplate. 

The Vehicons gradually began to move again, returning to cleaning or drying themselves, though none of the conversations of before continued. Hardshell snorted again and turned on the spigot. Cowards all. No wonder Megatron went through them so quickly. At least his Insecticons had some courage, and while they often paid for said courage with their lives, they could at least die heroes.

He tilted his head back, enjoying the warm flow of cleanser over his plating, watching with satisfaction as it carried the collected grime and filth of the battlefield toward the nearby drain. Despite the fact that they were often seen as little more than filthy animals, Insecticons in general liked to be clean – there was no worse feeling than having dirt caught in your spines or collecting in the chinks of your armor. There wasn’t a wash rack built into the Hive level of the ship, however, so the Insecticons often resorted to grooming each other, using claws and fangs and even glossas to clean one another’s armor.

Not that they found that arrangement unenjoyable. Most Insecticons preferred being groomed by a Hive-mate over a trip to the washrack, and it was a common sight to see one Insecticon running his claws through another’s spines, combing out debris and gently scraping away accumulated grime. It strengthened friendships among their kind, gave individuals a chance to relax, and had even led to more than one pair eventually becoming bondmates. Hardshell’s rank and ability to actually speak in complete sentences allowed him a chance at the washracks, albeit with plenty of stares and grumbles of complaint from the other Decepticons, but there were many times when he missed the hand-grooming…

He shook his head, cleanser flying in droplets from his horns. He didn’t want to think about that. Only one other Insecticon could groom him to his satisfaction… and Venom was dead now. Better not to think about that.

Conversation suddenly picked up again, and Hardshell glanced over to see Orion Pax entering the washracks. He gave a soft chuff of welcome himself, then realized that Orion wouldn’t understand an Insecticon greeting and instead raised his hand in a wave. At least one Decepticon aboard this vessel treated him and his brethren with respect and not like dumb animals… even if he wasn’t exactly a proper Decepticon. 

Orion greeted the Vehicons warmly before looking around for a place to shower. He seemed to settle on the spot beside Hardshell, and he stepped over and turned on the next spigot over, sighing in relief as the warm cleanser hit him.

“Orion,” Hardshell grunted in greeting.

“Hello, Hardshell,” he replied. “How did the battle against M.E.C.H. go?”

“Fair,” he grunted again. Orion should know this, he figured – he was there. Then again, he’d stayed back during the actual assault against the humans, only coming forward when they had been dispatched to retrieve a wounded Starscream from their clutches. One of these days someone was going to have to teach Orion to fight, or Megatron was going to get him killed.

“How fares Ransack? I hear he came back injured.”

Hardshell snorted. “He will recover.” A direct blast to the torso wasn’t exactly a minor wound, but Ransack had suffered worse. In fact, when Hardshell had last visited him in the repair bay he had been more put out by the fact that he was going to miss the language lessons for the next week than by his damages.

“Good… that’s good. I don’t want to see him go offline… not after we lost Ivan and Brad.” He sighed deeply. “I only hope this war comes to a quick end. I don’t think I can bear to lose another friend.” And he went silent, focusing on cleaning up.

Hardshell finished up his own cleanup, then took a moment to just stand there, letting the cleanser rain down on his armor, watching the red mech. He was an odd one, that was for sure. He treated both Vehicons and Insecticons with respect… far more respect than any other Decepticon. He took the time to learn their names, their personalities, their likes and dislikes and fears. And he spoke to the Insecticons as equals, not as a mech talked to a dumb animal, and took time out of his schedule to try to teach them to speak properly. 

And the Insecticons, in turn, loved Orion. They followed him in the break room, chirred and chuffed at him in welcome when he entered a room, and more than one individual had startled him by trying to pin him down and groom him. Even little Bob, the lone sparkling among their Hive at the moment, followed him like a turbo-puppy, scampering around his feet and nipping at his datapads. Hardshell doubted Megatron would allow Orion out on the battlefield anytime soon, but he was confident that if Orion ever fought with the Decepticons, any of the Insecticons would willingly take a shot to save his life.

Hardshell himself was a bit mixed in feeling. He recognized Orion as, not just another Decepticon, but a former enemy. He knew the mech had once been – and in a way still was – Optimus Prime, leader of their mortal foes. But at the same time, he was grateful for all Orion had done for his kind, and wanted to like him as a friend. 

And more than that, he wanted to ask something of Orion… something he knew any other Decepticon would have laughingly turned down. The question was how to bring it up…

Orion paused in the middle of wiping down the windshields on his chest, giving Hardshell a quizzical look. “What is it?”

Hardshell gave a high buzz of puzzlement. “What is what?”

“You’ve been staring at me for the last ten minutes,” Orion pointed out.

He snorted. “Have I? Didn’t notice.” He looked down at his arm and picked at the spines there. 

“What’s bothering you, Hardshell?” Orion asked, setting the cleaning cloth aside. “You can tell me. Unless it’s something personal, then perhaps we can discuss it elsewhere-”

“Here is good,” Hardshell cut in, a little more sharply than he’d intended. “Yes… there is something. I must ask a favor of you.”

Orion nodded slowly. “If it’s within my power, I will grant it.”

Hardshell curled his lip plates in a frown. He could only hope it was within Orion’s ability to grant him this. He wasn’t an officer, but his word did pull some weight with Megatron. Perhaps that would be enough.

“It is one of the Insecticons,” he explained. “You know of Softpaw?”

Orion considered a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. “Yes… he’s that Insecticon who was caught playing with power packs in the armory, wasn’t he?” He wore a searching expression as he tried to find a way to put his next words tactfully. “I get the feeling that he’s not entirely right in the CPU.”

That was one way to put it – and any other Decepticon would have resorted to less kind words. “He was born on the battlefield, and his carrier was struck by flying shrapnel as she was in labor. We were unable to save the carrier, and as a consequence of his injuries at birth Softpaw suffered CPU damage that could not be repaired.” Unless it was a case of would not rather than could not – too often repair technicians were perfectly willing to skimp on repairs when it came to Vehicons and Insecticons. 

“That’s terrible… poor thing.”

Hardshell’s first reaction was to snap at Orion for the comment, but he quickly realized that he had spoken sincerely, not sarcastically, and held his vocalizer. “He is enthusiastic and eager to do his part… but uncoordinated, soft-sparked, unwilling to be truly savage and ruthless on the battlefield. And I am… concerned… that if he shows no signs of improving, Megatron will have him destroyed as worthless.”

Orion shook his head. “Megatron would never do that.”

Want to bet, Hardshell wanted to reply. He knew full well that Megatron was stuffing this data clerk’s head full of lies, and he desperately wanted to set the record straight for him. But a messy deactivation had been promised to anyone who told Orion the truth, and Hardshell knew if he were to be destroyed, his Insecticons would be in even worse straits than ever. That particular conversation would have to wait for another time.

“All the same, if you could find some capacity in which Softpaw will be useful, I would be grateful. Every Insecticon is important to me, even one as simple and clumsy as him.”

Orion nodded. “I will do what I can. What are some of his strengths?”

Hardshell had to pause a moment and think on that. Softpaw was nothing if not determined to do anything requested of him, but far too often his enthusiasm far outstripped his ability. He had yet to show true aptitude in any outstanding field – too clumsy to be a fighter, too noisy and energetic to be a stealth agent, too easily distracted to be a spy…

“He is friendly,” he said at length. “And… he seems to have an innate ability to sense when someone is not well.”

“You mean injuries? Or sickness?”

“That as well… but mainly sickness of the spark. Depression, anxiety, stress… he seems unusually attuned to such things.”

“I see… what does he do when he senses those emotions in another mech?”

“Makes a pest of himself,” Hardshell growled. “Clings to them like a space barnacle, follows them like a pup. He’s gotten more than one boot to the face for his trouble.”

Orion winced, but then became thoughtful. “That’s rather interesting, actually… maybe there’s some way we can make use of that.” He shut off the flow of cleanser and spread his arms to let himself drip dry. “I’ll look into it, and see if I can find a place for him. Perhaps Knockout can use his services… if nothing else, he can comfort patients who’ve suffered serious injury before and during their repairs.”

Hardshell doubted that, but he nodded anyhow. “All I ask is that you try, Orion. My kind sees you as an ally. You have done much for us.”

“It’s the least I can do for my comrades,” he replied, smiling. “I’d better go. I’ll comm you when I find something.”

Hardshell nodded and shut off his own spigot, then stalked toward the dryers to get rid of the last of the cleanser. He wasn’t so sure that Orion would find anything… but Orion seemed to have a knack for accomplishing the impossible. Slag, he’d talked Megatron into bringing that treacherous Starscream back aboard the Nemesis, something that had shocked every mech under his command. Why not this, then?

Once he was dry, he made his way back to the Hive level. It was getting late, and the rest of his kind would be bedding down for the night. Hopefully the one in particular he wanted to see would still be awake.

Any human stepping into the Insecticons’ level of the ship would immediately think that the Hive was an apt name for it – the droning thrum vibrating through the level made it sound as if every surface was covered in bees. Said human would not be able to make out much more than an array of bulky, jagged forms gathering in pairs and clusters throughout the level, as the lights had been darkened significantly to better suit the inhabitants’ sensitive optical visors. And they would have been struck by a distinct smell, an odd and pungent combination of oil, metal, grease, ozone, and a strange sweetness that they wouldn’t have been able to place. A human would have found this sight unsettling, even terrifying, as if they had stepped into an alien world straight out of a sci-fi horror film.

To Hardshell, all this meant simply one thing – home.

His keen visor picked out individual mechs from the earlier battle, ensuring they were functioning well. Kickback had Bob settled in his arms and was bathing him with broad swipes of his glossa, the sparkling wriggling and growling in a desperate bid to escape. Shrapnel looked on, occasionally scratching at the fresh weld marks on his forearm from a recent repair. Buzzclaw lay sprawled out next to a wall while Salvo groomed him, carefully prying a bit of splintered wood from his spines. Chop Shop, Barrage, and Zaptrap were playing some sort of card game in an open spot in the corner, though judging by their chattering and hissing they were still trying to figure out the rules and weren’t exactly agreeing on them.

Hardshell nodded once, satisfied at what he saw, and made his way further into the single massive chamber. There weren’t individual rooms for Insecticons to sleep in… but then, they didn’t need them. Privacy and solitude were foreign concepts to most of their kind, and they not only preferred but craved the companionship of their brethren. It wasn’t simply a question of there being safety in numbers, or the tactical advantage of an entire swarm of Insecticons against a foe – there was something soothing about the companionship of the Hive, and an Insecticon separated from the Hive for long periods of time often went crazy within days.

A high shriek of delight cut into his thoughts, and he turned to find Softpaw galloping toward him, fangs bared in a wide smile. Before he could react the simple Insecticon had draped his arms around Hardshell’s neck and was applying welcoming licks to his faceplate. Gurgling clicks emerged from his vocalizer, and his wings quivered in his excitement. He acted far less like a proper Insecticon and far more like a turbohound pup greeting its master after a long day.

Despite himself, Hardshell found himself smiling back. He chirred softly in welcome and bumped his forehead gently against Softpaw’s, letting their horns touch in greeting. Softpaw returned the gesture a bit more forcefully, making Hardshell reel back a bit. Then he dropped down to all fours and stared up at the Insecticon leader, practically wriggling with excitement.

Other mechs might have been disgusted or embarrassed at this sort of behavior from another mech, even an Insecticon. But Hardshell only took him by the arm and gently tugged him to his feet, leading him to the spot he normally claimed as his nest. He understood that Softpaw couldn’t help much of his behavior, that he only acted this way because he couldn’t understand certain social skills, such as why it wasn’t always appropriate to hug someone you liked anytime you wanted. And while he was working with him on improving his behavior, he wasn’t going to punish him for something he didn’t understand.

He had his reasons for looking out for the younger Insecticon. Even if they weren’t precisely reasons he would share with anyone outside the Hive – even Orion, not at the moment. He liked the young clerk, but there were certain things he didn’t want repeated back to Megatron right now.

Most Insecticons’ nests were carefully woven beds made from shredded berth padding and blankets, usually the discards from the rest of the ship. Softpaw’s nest was barely recognizable as such, and terribly messy even by Insecticon standards. But he had insisted on weaving it himself, not accepting help from Hardshell or any other member of the Hive, and he had been quite proud of his handiwork. And he seemed comfortable enough in it, so who was Hardshell to judge?

Softpaw climbed into his nest and kneaded his claws against the padding, like an electro-cat kneading its paws against its owner’s leg. Then he curled up and looked up at Hardshell expectantly.

Hardshell huffed slightly but acquiesced, crouching down beside the younger Insecticon and starting to groom him. He’d already undergone a grooming session this morning, so he wasn’t particularly in need of cleaning right now. But the tending soothed him, and gave the two of them time together… time they didn’t get enough of with Hardshell’s duties. 

The Insecticon leader had rather understated his emotions when he had told Orion he was “concerned” about the younger Insecticon’s fate. He was, quite frankly, scared, even if he would never admit it aloud. He worried that at any time Megatron would declare Softpaw a waste of resources, and demand he be terminated. And Hardshell knew if the Decepticon leader ordered his destruction, he would fight it to the bitter end… even if it cost him his own life.

That horrible day on the battlefield still stood out all too vividly in his CPU – the memory of Venom crumpling on the battlefield, shrieking in pain and clutching her belly. She had been experiencing pains all day, and Hardshell had wanted her to stay in the medbay until they knew for sure whether the sparkling was coming or not… but their commander had ordered her to fight anyway, caring more about his own victory than about the welfare of his troops.

Hardshell had tried to protect her. Primus, how he had tried. He had stayed by her side throughout the entire labor, warding off any Autobots who dared to come near, thinking a downed Insecticon would be easy pickings. He had tried to keep her safe… but even he could not have predicted that a shrapnel mine had been buried perilously close to where Venom had fallen, nor that one of the attacking Autobots would step right on it as he moved in to attack.

The Autobot, a Wrecker of all things, had been practically vaporized… and half of Venom’s side had been torn off by the shrapnel blast. Hardshell had suffered injuries as well, but he had ignored the pain and the sickening feeling of energon dripping down his armor as he’d desperately tugged Venom to safety, keening worriedly, begging her to hold on, to pull through…

She had lived just long enough for the sparkling to be born. The child had been damaged as well, helm badly dented as if by a blow, wounds in his chassis where shrapnel had pierced Venom’s gestational chamber and struck him. But he had been lively even then, crying and squirming in Hardshell’s claws, clutching him as if he never intended to let go. He wouldn’t know about the CPU damage until later… but for now it had been enough that he was alive, and by all appearances would recover from his wounds.

Take care of him, Venom had urged him, her final words before her spark had winked out. Take care of our son.

Hardshell gently brushed his talons over a pale scar in Softpaw’s side before returning to grooming. He had done everything in his power to honor his mate’s request. His duties as leader of the Insecticons kept him terribly busy, but he had still made time to tend to his son, playing with him, protecting him from those who would have bullied him or kicked him around. It had been difficult without a mate to help him, but he had managed. And Softpaw had rewarded him for his efforts with a single-minded devotion, a love and affection that somehow made all his sacrifices worth it.

But if, after all he had done, Megatron still thought him worthless… it would break him. He had lost so much else in this war. He would not lose his creation as well.

Softpaw raised his head to regard Hardshell, and he whimpered softly. He knew, somehow, that his sire was troubled, and he wanted to comfort him.

Hardshell rumbled low in his throat and reassuringly licked the side of the younger mech’s helm. He would be fine, he assured him with a series of gentle clicks and hisses. He was a leader, and leaders simply had more to worry about than other mechs.

Softpaw accepted that, and he nuzzled against Hardshell before curling up in his nest. Within minutes his venting deepened, indicating he had fallen into recharge.

Hardshell couldn’t sleep yet, though. He continued grooming the younger Insecticon, picking at imaginary rust mites between his spines, smoothing out the wiring that showed through gaps in his armor. Softpaw twitched slightly in his sleep, but otherwise didn’t react to the attention.

Finally he lay down beside his creation, curling protectively around him. He had a perfectly good nest of his own in the Hive, but half the time he found himself sleeping with Softpaw, or at least keeping him company for part of the night. And tonight, when he felt perilously close to losing him, he wanted to be close to him for as long as possible.

And if Megatron tried to be rid of this “waste of resources” in the middle of the night, or sent troops down to execute him… they would have to get through HIM first.

He had almost dozed off when a sudden ping in his comm unit brought him to full awareness. He snarled softly, making Softpaw stir in his sleep, and he sat up to answer.

“Who is this?” he growled.

“It’s Orion. Please forgive the sudden call, but… I have an idea for Softpaw.”


End file.
